


Carry Our Wedding Bed Through Town

by spocklee



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-10 18:10:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18665665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spocklee/pseuds/spocklee
Summary: Brienne is layered. Jaime is a pest.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

They were riding through the village closest to the ancestral castle, and it was strange how different the people of Tarth were. Nobody bothered much with coming out to pay their respects, and there were already few people living there. They nodded. Children waved, but it wasn’t with the same awe as the urchins that had stared at him when he’d ridden by in golden armor. Perhaps it was also having Brienne as their Lady; he often forgot she wasn’t a humble hedge knight. She had a straight-forwardness that reminded him of the North, and rather than annoy him, it made him sit up straighter in his saddle with a smug pride. She was better than a Northerner, with their own holier-than-thou rules and traditions. Wasn’t it some boring septon who had said that islands often produced life that was entirely unique? Still:

 

“This is dull. Or at least less interesting than how I thought we’d spend most of our married life.”

 

“Ser,” she said it at him with a sideways glance as if she was insulting him; he found it endearing.

 

“So formal. What happened to my wife from the war? You were so forward then. I thought it was passion but it must have been the constant fear of death.”

 

She scowled, “I’m not formal, I’m-- I’m being _polite.”_

 

He raised his eyebrows at her, even though she refused to look at him, “I like when you’re forward. It’s overwhelming.”

 

He saw her jaw clench, “My love,” and she said it with an edge of irony, “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Oh really? Remember that night you came to me? The second time?” She stared straight ahead and craned her head slightly as if she was checking the men in front of them, but he could tell she was listening by the way she blinked rapidly. It was a habit of hers. He brought his horse closer to hers and spoke low as if he was saying something lurid.

 

-

 

That first night when she had come to him, her armor peeled off after the battle and the maester’s tendings, their eyes had met for a second and then searched each other for injuries. He had seen a faint pink bandage around her collarbone and wanted to reach out and touch it with both a desire to heal and raw lust. How had some dusty maester, how had sweet guileless Sam, touched her like it was nothing when he was still terrified? His hands had shaken at his sides as she had taken in a deep breath and then nodded her head in that way she did before greetings.

 

“Ser Jaime.”

 

“Ser Brienne.”

 

“I--” and already her act of normalcy was failing her, and he could see fear in her eyes.

 

“Brienne?”

 

Her head fell, and he saw her swallow. Her clothes were baggy, a loose shirt tucked into loose pants that were tight around the wide waist and ankles, with a giant fur cloak around her. The simplicity of it suited her, the soft cloth and gentle brown color. Her remembered her in the swirl of cinders and dark, swinging in her shining black armor with her hair crashing around her face as if she was some deathless warrior sent by the gods. How could the woman from that night be this one, standing terrified in front of him?

 

It was unfair that he always waited for her to be the brave one. He reached for her.

 

“Brienne.”

 

He owed it to her to be soothing, to pretend her fear didn’t frighten him. He cursed himself for reaching with the gold hand. It glanced against her knuckles, but when she looked down at it, her eyes softened and shone with tears. She reached back for it, and held him by the wrist where she knew he could feel it.

 

“Jaime, I… I thought I would die last night. I thought I would see you die, if I was not lucky enough to die first.”

 

At this dreadful confession he pulled back his hand in reflex and hissed at her, “Brienne! Don’t say something like that--” but she held tight to his wrist, and he saw the remaining fear in her eyes be replaced with brutal determination. It had been there when she had told him to live, when she had told him he still had to save the Stark girls.

 

“It’s true. I would not abandon my pledge to Lady Sansa, but neither would I be happy to have survived that night if you had died. I would rather die in battle defending you than bury you.”

 

She had leaned forward while she said this, pulling him close by the wrist, and in the following silence she let go of him and stepped back, out of his room and into the hallway. Her intensity was gone.

 

“I’m sorry. That was unkind of me.”

 

“No,” he breathed out, and then steadied himself with an insult, “No. Stupid, to value a life like mine over yours, but not unkind.”

 

They glared at each other, with something more searching and feral than cruelty. She finally shook her head and only looked anguished again.

 

“That time at Harrenhall. I’ve never understood. You came all the way back to throw your life in front of mine. You came here, to this hell surrounded by everyone who’s ever hated you, and stayed by my side to protect them. Why?”

 

He thought of the way she had looked in his sleep that night before the bear pit, of her flaming sword. At the time he hadn’t known the meaning. He had only remembered what it had been like to be a child and see a real knight like Arthur Dayne, like Rhaegar, and to feel there was something beautiful in the world worth admiring, even if he couldn’t become it himself.  

 

Arthur dead, Rhaegar dead, even Ned dead, his dead father and dead children he’d failed to protect, his life in ruins, but him and her still alive, and he shrugged despite the emotion in his throat, “I dreamed of you.”

 

At this she bowed her head again, so he could not see her face. He worried that maybe she was angry at his attempt at offhandedness. When she spoke, her voice was clear.

 

“I love you, Ser Jaime. I had to tell you. No matter what, I think I will only ever love you,” she looked up and he saw the trail of tears down her face, that she made no attempt to wipe away before turning, “I’m sorry to have woken you.”

 

She began to walk away, and he stood in the doorway frozen. Suddenly he was stumbling into the hall. He felt that if he let her turn the corner and disappear from sight, she’d be gone forever. He threw himself at her without thinking. She turned at the sound of footsteps and practically had to catch him. She looked concerned for his health. He was sure he looked rabid, and he was fine with that if it meant she would stay. Her hands were strong on his shoulders.

 

“Jaime? Jaime, are you alright?”

 

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against her shoulder. He felt her tense. _If she loves me,_ he thought, _and she said she does, and she’d never lie about something like that,_ _then maybe she wouldn’t mind if I asked her to call me Jaime as much as I’d like. Maybe if the gods aren’t paying attention, I can get away with having something like that._

 

Her hand was on his back, holding him to her, and he wished this winter was over if only so there wasn’t so much fur and cloth between her touch.

 

“Jaime? Jaime,” she almost sounded annoyed and it made him laugh against her and calm down.

 

He pulled his head away and looked at her, “I love you. I think we might both be too stupid at this kind of thing. To think you would have walked away thinking I didn’t love you.”

 

He laughed again, and she had stared at him with only more concern and he had only laughed more. He was hysterical, until she had pushed him away and he stood stunned, the laughter gone. She looked furious.

 

“Don’t laugh at me, Ser. If we were ever friends, you’d leave me be.”

 

“I’d leave you after I just said I loved you? And what, steal your brilliant tactic from earlier?”

 

“You know I don’t care for jokes,” her anger had shot clear past tears; her hand was a threat on her sword pommel, and he marvelled at his arousal even as he lunged desperately at a solution.

 

Beyond the lust and desperation, with a memory of slapping Connington across the face and spilling fire at his feet, was a furious desire to beat every man who’d tortured Brienne with fake affection and grudging proposals to an inch of their ungrateful lives. It was the only way he knew how to reply to the heartbreak of seeing her unable to believe him even now. It was an ugly feeling; but he decided firmly that she was a good person to feel it for.

 

“Brienne, let me fight for your hand. You said that you swore you’d only marry the man who could beat you in combat.”

 

She sneered, for once like a true noble, “I’m not going to fight you.”

 

And then she had wheeled around and stormed out onto the catwalk into the bitter cold. He called after her.

 

“I’ll find you in the training yard.”

 

She had stopped. How many times was he going to have to watch her back grow smaller? She continued walking.

 

Later, despite her refusal, he found her in the yard as if waiting. In minutes she knocked the wooden sword out of his hand. She brought her own to his throat, but even then she only let the point hover rather than graze it. He ached at the idea that she still couldn’t bear to press a fake blade to his skin. 

 

She had certainly had no problems beating him with it, with a cold efficiency. He ached on a more literal level. Her eyes and voice were hard. The rest of the yard had taken notice that it was not their typical friendly spar.

 

“Yield, Ser Jaime.”

 

He tried not to bare his teeth on instinct, “Again.”

 

She backed up and he picked up the fallen sword. He rushed her silently and she spun out of the way, and he felt the tap of the sword like a knock on the back of his neck.

 

“Yield. The joke is over. You’re only embarrassing yourself now, Ser.”

 

He clenched his hand into a fist and refused to meet the eyes of the snickering Northerners he could hear gathering on the second floor.

 

“There was never a joke, Ser Brienne. I ask for another chance.”

 

He stepped forward and turned around, to see her with her sword pointed to the snow and her chin still tight. At least her eyes looked more appraising than angry.

 

“A chance for what?”

 

He gestured to the yard and to the Night’s Watch fools openly laughing behind him, “For-- for this! For winning this bloody thing so you’ll believe me!”

 

She huffed like a bull and then charged him, faster than he thought possible. It was like being chased by a falling boulder. He blocked her and she swung the sword out of his hand again in a clean rotation, and then to his greater surprise continued to push at him until his back was against one of the stone pillars that bordered the yard. Her arm was against his throat. She held her sword loose at her side. He thought of their fight long ago on the bridge, when she had realized that despite his barbs and endless well of cruelty, he was still just a pathetic animal trying to get out of a trap. Her eyes looked over him now like he was just some random squire she had to train. Her voice was quieter, private from the bystanders, almost sympathetic.

 

“Ser Jaime. Yield.”

 

“No.”

 

She grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him to the ground in a swift motion. She stepped calmly over so that she had a foot planted on either side of his chest, and pointed the practice sword at his throat again as he scrambled onto his elbows. The intrigued way she tilted her head, the proud angle of her chin; she could be so haughty when she fought. Nothing like that trembling maiden who knocked on his door and said she’d love him her whole life.

 

“Yield,” it was a command now.

 

He growled, “No!”

 

He swept her feet, and only managed to knock her over because he rolled his entire body against her left ankle. She tipped and tangled in his own legs before crashing into the snow. Thank the gods for this stupid winter, actually. They were wearing layers of warm padding instead of heavy armor and the snow was soft even as it leached the warmth from his hair. _That’s right. Get whatever gold is left._

 

An amused sound of worry had gone through the crowd, but they were quiet as Brienne laid on her back. His arm was stretched out, and held his sword over her neck. He could have pretended to slit her throat. He might have, with a real one, years ago. He would have killed the last knight, and then stolen her horse.

 

“I won’t marry you, Ser Jaime.”

 

He managed to pull himself into a sitting position at her side, all the romance beaten out of him, “Fine! Then don’t marry me! But don’t insult me by thinking I’m having some laugh like all those stupid shitheaps who came before. I would give up my lands and titles. I would wear your cloak and it would be the best I’ve worn.”

 

He pushed himself to his feet, and the crowd pulled back. He reveled in it. People would always back away from a lion, even if it was caged. Even if it was battered and sad. He wanted to spit, angry at everyone who’d ever lived.

 

“If you’re too stubborn to let go of this tragic knight you want to be so much, then be it. Live your life like one of those miserable songs. But I love you. If you really trusted me, you’d believe me.”

 

-

 

“You knocked on my door later that night, at a rather _late_ hour if I recall. I remember because at the time I was thinking I should have been asleep, but all I could think about was how angry I was at you, and also how I’d wish you’d appear and push me down on that awful straw they call a bed and rip off my clothes--”

 

She turned her head primly, “I’m so glad marriage hasn’t changed you, Ser Jaime.”

 

He smiled charmingly at her, “How do you mean, darling wife?”

 

“You’re still annoying,” but her smile was sincere, affectionate, deep.

 

The rest of the story lay between them. She had appeared at his door that night, and he had opened it bruised and petty.

 

_What are you here to do? Declare your love again? Fight me?_

 

She had stepped into the room in one long, bold stride that made him take a step back, and cradled his jaw in her hand.

 

_I’m believing you._

 

It was true. He hadn’t changed at all; any moment she let him see even a glimpse of her love for him, it widened his eyes and left his mouth open but silent. He managed to shake his head and look away, pretending to suddenly be interested in the road. She laughed, breathy and short. She laughed often now that the war was over. He couldn’t remember her ever laughing before. It was like someone had invented a new color.

 

“You’re very shy for a married man.”

 

He squinted up at the trees, “I could talk louder about that night, if you’d like.”

 

“Fool,” but her face was already red, and he melted in his seat with childish joy at the privilege of teasing her, “And say what? You insisted on marrying me the next day before we could go to bed.”

 

“I would have married you either way. But since I wanted to do both I simply did it in the order that people prefer for some reason. Besides, I couldn’t have anyone bothering you with useless nonsense about your honor," he waved innocently at an old woman, "Even though you _were_ in quite a rush to ruin me. Rather wonderfully but still."

 

“Ser, I’m sure most people think the only reason you married me is _because_ you dishonored me, and then figured at least it would be advantageous to marry me.”

 

“I’m pretty sure everyone who matters thinks I married you because I’m clearly madly in love with you and was following you hopelessly around, _ser._ ”

 

That made her go quiet, and she looked down at her saddle before raising her head back up. Her eyes were fixed on the road again. He wished he could knock over trees and boulders and destroy the bloody road. He wished she would call him Jaime more often, and not _ser_ or worst of all, _Lord._ In the privacy of their bedroom there was none of this noble restraint of hers. 

 

“By the way, if it starts raining, can we go home and do the honorable thing?”

 

She closed her eyes for a moment of patience, and then turned to him, a thin smile threatening to ruin her glare.

 

“What? Blame it on me. Let them think I’m lazy and insatiable and you’re simply attending your wifely duties.”

 

“My lord,” (oh gods could she read his mind?), “it is part of _our_ duties to travel the island and make sure that the villages are being governed justly. Even if it’s raining. You can always stay behind if you're not feeling well.”

 

He withdrew his chin into his fur collar, “Too bloody cold not to be in bed with my wife.”

 

“Brat.”

 

Before he could realize the word had come from her, she was already riding off ahead of him to the front of the line. He had caught a glimpse of the smile on her face. She might have laughed.

 

-


	2. Chapter 2

“Jaime, be careful where you step.”

 

He walked behind her, and she still marveled at seeing him here in Tarth. She had grown up walking through these woods, running away and crying against trees when some new suitor glared at her or she overheard the squires talking about her looks as young as ten years old. She’d practice hitting the trees with tourney swords before she was able to train with real ones in the yard; she had hurt her wrist something awful the first time she had tried attacking a proud evergreen with a wooden blade. She had never been able to write lady’s poetry or paint very well, but she remembered sitting under the canopy and recalling verses that described how she felt. She had wished she was confident enough to sing, but couldn’t find the nerve even when entirely alone.

 

Now her husband followed her through the tall trees. He teased but he smiled. He complained but she heard the happiness in his voice, and when she told him it was okay to stay behind (when some strangely persistent part of her wanted to say _it’s okay if you want to go home to Casterly Rock, if you want to say we never consummated our marriage and annul it--_ ) he would say, “Of course I’m coming with you.”

 

He wasn’t necessarily a shadow. He would sometimes kiss her cheek in the morning before leaving to go read somewhere, to walk around town. He liked the port the best. It was more lively than the little houses around the castle. Sometimes the thrill went sour, when someone would recognize him not as the Lady’s husband, but as Jaime Lannister, a list of disgraces. He would find her at the end of the day and she would see his mood, and stroke his brow with her thumb. She did not have the grace and charm to encourage him in words. Sometimes he simply went off to be alone, and she saw him more quiet than usual at dinner.

 

“Lady wife, you act as if I’ve never stumbled through a forest before. Don’t you treasure memories of our early adventures?”

 

“I treasure my husband, who I’d hate to see bitten by a snake.”

 

“Hm. I’m too distracted to keep my eyes on the ground.”

 

She steadied her hand against the tree beside her; it was too wide to wrap her arms around, and she wouldn’t bother craning her head to see its height. She turned around and saw him staring at her, his glance unmistakable in meaning. She almost rolled her eyes.

 

“Ser.”

 

“Come on, Brienne. There’s nobody around.”

 

She shook her head and turned back to walking. There was a clearing ahead where the villagers said they had marked the trees they wanted chopped down. They would carry the wood out themselves, but their usual woodcutter was sick.

 

“You’re ridiculous, Jaime.”

 

She heard him laugh behind her. It made the smile grow slow and big on her face. She was both relieved and sad he couldn’t see it. It felt undeserved, to enjoy him when she was supposed to be helping others. It felt a little too good.

 

She noticed a red flag hanging from a branch in the distance, and followed it. The clearing already had a few stumps. The flagged trees were of medium age, not too young or too big. She got to work.

 

Jaime wandered the clearing, and she felt aware of him even as she swung the axe. His voice would sometimes drift through the trees, circling her but unseen as she kept her eyes on the growing gap, the blade disappearing further and further.

 

“Love,” she almost winced at the pet name, at the strange mix of teasing and sincerity it always held, “why are you doing this? Surely there’s another village’s woodcutter we could send.”

 

She stopped and felt the sweat on the back of her neck as she rolled her shoulders, “It would be too much time to arrange. This will only take a day, and we’ll be back tomorrow.”

 

“Like when you went out to help the farmers reap.”

 

“You helped them too.”

 

-

 

He had been unsure with the scythe, but he had joined the women in gathering what had been cut, and carrying it back. The younger women had been happy to talk to him, bashful and drawn to the lady’s handsome husband, but the older women glared. He had ignored them but Brienne had seen his cheer dull, until by the end of the day he went about his work quietly and alone. She had excused them earlier than she had planned, irritated by her own anger. Of course they wouldn’t trust him. She couldn’t blame them, but her anger was an irrational boulder in the back of her throat, a shiver that ran down her spine.

 

She had apologized to the inn and explained they had to return to the castle that night, and she and Jaime had ridden quietly back in the dark woods. If anyone had tried to attack them, she was afraid of the expression they’d find waiting on her face.

 

It was only when they had gotten back, unpacked their horses, washed off their sweat and the dirt of travel, and closed the bedroom door that she had pressed him against the wall and kissed him hard. He had fumbled, and then brought his hand to her face. Eventually he pulled away laughing and put his hand on her chest to keep her from continuing.

 

“Hold on, you’re about to knock my teeth out if you keep kissing like that. Are you angry at me, wife?”

 

She frowned sternly at him, “No.”

 

His joking tone settled, even though he remained smiling, “Well, you’re certainly angry at someone.”

 

“You’re a good man, Jaime. You’re my husband.”

 

He blinked in surprise, then grinned, a real grin this time. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

 

“I’ll agree that one of those things is true tonight.”

 

She didn’t laugh, and he frowned.

 

“Brienne. They’re right to distrust me. It would be worrying if they didn’t. The only reason they’re not hiding it is because they trust you.”

 

She tilted her head, waiting for the explanation.

 

“Maybe trust isn’t the right word… Respect? They certainly wouldn’t act that way if they were afraid you’d have them killed or punished for treating me so. They wouldn’t let you work with them if they didn’t think you at least had me under control. It’s when everyone worships you that you have to worry about what they’re really thinking.”

 

“They still shouldn’t treat you that way.”

 

“Maybe they should. Would you rather they forgave me for everything simply because I’m a lord?”

 

She finally let go of her anger in favor of exasperation, and sighed deeply before looking about the room, “Well, no, but-- You have done terrible things. But you’ve also changed a great deal. You’ve sought forgiveness.”

 

“I’ve done what I’ve done. And they don’t know me like you know me.”

 

She swallowed. His palm had found its way to her cheek and she closed her eyes.

 

“They’re honest people, with high standards and hard beliefs,” he kissed her other cheek and she felt him smile, and how wonderful it always was to hear it both in his touch and voice, “I’ve come to find I like people like that.”

 

He pulled back, and she opened her eyes. He was waiting to see if she was still mad. She sighed but still felt stern.

 

“They’ll know you in time. Keep coming with me. They’ll come to trust you.”

 

His glance flitted to her mouth, and she saw the doubt, but he said, “Maybe.”

 

It made her angry again, but it was a dissipated anger, spread thinner over its many recipients. She thought of the certainty with which he loved her in public and how rarely she returned it, of how she couldn’t bear to be so warm and vulnerable. The thought of other people seeing her gaze at her Lannister husband, of their whispers that she had finally naively bought into the old lion’s trick if they saw her so besotted, of him finally leaving because he was so tired of the rumors and difficulties of a cold wife. She was angry that she still had doubts, that sometimes she thought she’d wake up alone, and in the distance a boat would be leaving from the port.

 

“Brienne.”

 

His voice was almost harsh. She realized she hadn’t been paying attention.

 

“Yes?”

 

He looked mad now, “You had that look on your face like you were blaming yourself for something stupid.”

 

She narrowed her eyes back at him, but it must have been the response he wanted, because he sighed too dramatically to be serious.

 

“You think too much. Thank the gods you have such a beautiful husband to distract you.”

 

“Oh, do I?”

 

“Yes, do you want me to go get him?”

 

It caught her off guard and she laughed, and he beamed in clear relief. It was the kind of moment that eased her doubts completely, that happened nightly. In privacy, it was easy to distinguish that her concern was what others thought, what others saw, what others believed. It was Jaime who she trusted completely. It was laughing and touching him in the dark that assured her she knew how to love him well, and that she could trust herself to do it. In the morning the doubt might return. Maybe one day it wouldn't.

 

“No. No, I think you’ll do. Stay.”

 

She leaned in and kissed him again, as soft as she could to show him she was no longer angry, and she felt him fall into her touch. He could be as sweet as a maiden when she kissed him, and sometimes it made her laugh and sometimes it made her want to weep.

 

-

 

He stopped his wandering and was now sitting on a stump, watching her. The axe was too hard for him to hold. He had carried the heavier of their packs, only giving her a silencing look when she had tried to insist on carrying more herself.

 

She was on her fourth tree. She heard the telltale crack, and let the weight of it break itself as it fell away from her. They both watched it calmly crash into the bushes.

 

They ate their midday meal sitting on needles and leaning up against one of the fallen trunks. Jaime pointed to the fleeting shapes of birds and asked about each one, and Brienne was able to guess at only two or three. It was peaceful and easy. She looked at him, as he was staring up at branch trying to find the cause of its trembling, and then she looked up as well.

 

“I love you.”

 

He turned away from the bird and looked at her. It flew out of tree while he was distracted, but she couldn’t have named it. She turned to look at her husband, thinking of the possessive as something small but precious, and thought, _He still looks so surprised when I say it. As if it’s the first time all over again._

 

“I love you, too.

 

She chopped down the last trees. She was exhausted. The ride home the next morning would be brutal, but the day was ending and the breeze from the ocean was cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote that whole last chapter and then sat up in bed like 'they didn't even kiss'

**Author's Note:**

> oh jaime is absolutely going to die though


End file.
